


Agents Acquired

by LadyNorbert



Series: Twice Upon an Age [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Gen, Inquisition Agents (Dragon Age), Inquisition Mounts (Dragon Age), Multiple Inquisitors, Side Story, Varric Tethras is my editor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNorbert/pseuds/LadyNorbert
Summary: Have you ever wondered how the recruitment of the Inquisition agents must have looked from the agents' perspective? No, probably not. But Varric's going to show you anyway. Takes place concurrent to various chapters of "All This Sh*t is Twice as Weird."





	1. In Preface of Things to Come

**Author's Note:**

> I maintain that this was not my idea. I mean, it was a little bit, but in a passing fancy, 'oh hm' sort of fashion. No, my beloved editor was the one who seized this particular plot bunny and ran away with it. I'll let him explain.

* * *

**In Preface of Things to Come**

* * *

 

[ _ **Editor’s note:** Scholar isn’t entirely happy with me right now. Something about “I have enough on my plate, Varric,” and “I do need to sleep sometimes, you know.” And I understand this, because after all, I’m a writer too. Anyway, the long and short of it is that this letter arrived from Buttercup - I was as surprised as you probably are right now, because she’s not big on writing letters as far as I’m aware. But it came, and she raises a good point, and so we decided to add one more side volume to this ridiculously wordy series. (When I say “we decided,” I really mean “I decided and Scholar got dragged along for the ride.” Same thing.) _

_I’ve included the letter so you have some idea of how this got started. Like the notes she used to send to the Inquisition council, it’s written in what Scholar has dubbed “Sera-ese.” I think you can figure out what she’s saying, however, and I am absolutely having that drawing framed. You should have seen Sunshine trying not to laugh when she saw it. Hawke didn’t even try._

_So here’s the scoop on how Hunter and Eyebrows collected some of the Inquisition agents. Sure, you probably already know the basics of how they got recruited, but I’d be willing to bet that at least some of you never stopped to consider what the situations looked like from the agents’ points of view. To be fair, neither did I until we wrote this. We sent letters to some of them, personally interviewed some others; it doesn’t matter which is which, it was just a case of who was easiest to find. Either way, they told us what it was like before, during, and after their first meetings with the Inquisitors, and out of that we came up with what you’re about to read here._

_Don’t worry about Scholar. She’ll forgive me. She always does._ ]

 

* * *

 

Oi, weirdy,

Heard you’re telling a new tale. Guess that’s good. Word through the vine is that it’s about how the Inky duo got that way. Sounds okay.

Just don’t forget about the little people who helped the big people get where they needed to go. I don’t mean us, like you and me. I mean the people people. Best thing about our big hats is how they always remember the smaller hats. Make sure you do the same.

I ever go traveling on your side of the sea, maybe I’ll stop by and see this big chair of yours.

Say hello to wossername.

Sera

 

[ _At the bottom of the letter is a crude drawing of Varric on the Kirkwall throne, or rather Sera’s imagining of how the Kirkwall throne looks. The Viscount’s coronet has crossbow bolts for crenellations. What might be presumed to be Seneschal Bran is standing to one side of the throne, wearing a jester’s hat; his face is obscured by a large cream pie which someone has thrown at him. This may account for the fact that Bethany, who is standing on the other side of the throne, is depicted as laughing uncontrollably. Varric’s own expression suggests that he might well have been the one to throw the pie._ ]


	2. Vale's Irregulars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vale of Rainsfere becomes Corporal Vale, meets the Heralds, and finds his way forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is very little about Vale on the DA wiki. So I invented his entire backstory. You're going to see that a lot in this document (despite what my editor will tell you).

* * *

**Vale's Irregulars**

* * *

 

When Vale was just nineteen years old, war broke out between the mages and the Templars.

At first, this was a nebulous, faraway, not really here thing. It was nothing more than a fresh piece of news in the Bannorn, where his family lived in a small house just outside of Rainsfere. The older folks talked about it by the fireside in their homes or at the taverns, shaking their heads over the renegade mages, especially the one who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry, and the Templars who were no longer upholding their vows. It was a terrible thing, to be sure, and one that  _ someone _ needed to fix, but no one seemed to quite know who  _ someone _ was.

One of the girls from his village had been taken to the Circle years earlier, when she was about twelve. Hanna wrote to her father and mother fairly often and they shared her messages with their neighbors. She always seemed happy enough. The Fereldan Circle, she said, was not like some of the other Circles. The Knight-Commander was stern, but polite. The Templars were generally respectful. The mages could go out into the world, provided they asked permission and had an appropriate escort; indeed, one of them, an elderly mage called Wynne, had accompanied the Heroes of Ferelden on their legendary quest back when Vale was just a child. Kinloch Hold was still a prison, as every Circle was a prison, but it was a gentler one than the rumors would suggest the others were.

The news continued to pour out of the Free Marches. One after another, the Circles of Magi - having learned of their Kirkwall brethren being nearly put to the sword for a crime not of their own making - began rising up and demanding independence from Templar governance. Even the Fereldan Circle finally did likewise, though it took longer for them than almost any other, at least as far as Vale knew. He thought of Hanna, whose face he could no longer recall clearly; but he remembered that she had hair the color of obsidian, which she always wore tied in two braids that fell to her waist, and he wondered where she had gone when the Circle tower was abandoned.

Most of the rebel mages, it was said, fled to Redcliffe, at the southern shore of Lake Calenhad. King Alistair had granted them asylum in Ferelden, and they had sought shelter under the protection of the king’s sort-of-uncle, Arl Teagan Guerrin. Some of the Templars were missing; others remained at their posts, unwilling to abandon what they had guarded for so long. In Kirkwall, the genesis of the chaos, the Champion had remained for some time to assist the provisional Knight-Commander with keeping order in the city. But as the months passed, and the rebellion entered its first full year, she too left her home and disappeared into the wilds. It wasn’t clear just how much she’d had to do with all of this, save that the mage who destroyed the Chantry had been a friend of hers, but many people were willing enough to place the blame on her shoulders.

The war raged on.

It spread like a wildfire through the continent, dragging more and more people into its destructive path - people who were not mages, and who were not Templars, but simply wanted to be left alone by both.  _ Someone _ needed to stop them, said the old farmers, shaking their heads.  _ Someone _ needed to do something.

And it was two weeks before his twenty-first birthday, as he breathed the scent of smoke where it drifted on the wind from a farmhouse set ablaze several miles away, that Vale decided maybe he was  _ someone _ .

 

* * *

 

The Divine was taking matters in hand, the news proclaimed.

She was convening a great Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in the Frostback Mountains. Many people from all walks of life would gather there, hoping to bring about a peaceful resolution to the conflict. Other rumors were quieter, more secretive; whispers crossed the valleys about the Left and Right Hands of the Divine putting together another purpose. They were gathering an army, perhaps to enforce the Divine’s will, and they needed soldiers.

Vale wasn’t sure he qualified as a soldier. But he could use a sword and a shield, thanks to some lessons he’d had from his da while growing up, and maybe that was enough. He kissed his mother goodbye, and promised to write often, and he set out for the mountain gathering. He soon found a caravan traveling in that direction, and traded some of his only coins for a place in the wagon. From within its relative shelter, he watched as they rolled along to see the scenery change into a snowy landscape. He had never been so far from home.

They came to the village of Haven, where the forces of the Divine were slowly gathering. The Hands weren’t there, not yet, but the rumors of an army being forged were true. “The former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall is on his way here to lead you lot,” said the blacksmith, a taciturn man with an improbable mustache. “Name’s Harritt, lately of Redcliffe. Let’s get you suited up and you can start drilling with the rest.”

It was, as he wrote to his mother, not an unhappy time. The other soldiers were companionable; the mountain air was invigorating in its way; and the little village had a lively, steadfast pace which always suggested the cheerfulness of working toward a goal. There was plenty to do, even outside of practicing with swords and shields, for the soldiers were needed to venture into the snow-covered highlands and bring back elfroot for Master Taigen the healer, and seek out deposits of iron ore for Harritt. Day by day, more and more people found their way into Haven on their way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Thanks to this continuous stream of new arrivals, there seemed to always be fresh stories shared around the hearth of the Singing Maiden, the tavern where everyone took their meals.

It wasn’t just humans attending the Conclave, either, Vale soon realized. There were a handful of elves - mostly Circle mages, but also a few of the Dalish who had left the safety of their clans to venture into what they called the  _ shemlen _ world to find out what was happening. More numerous were the dwarves; the majority of these were merchants, who had come to set up wares for the attending nobles to purchase, or who were simply stopping out of curiosity on their way to the gates of Orzammar. He spent a little of his pay on a few baubles, and sent them home to Mother.

Word was coming from the area outside Redcliffe, in the Hinterlands, about the arrival of mages and Templars. These weren’t the rebel mages, however, nor the respectable Templars; these were renegades, hell-bent on nothing more than destroying each other and anybody who had the misfortune to get caught in between. The Hinterlands were also home to a lot of refugees who had already been displaced by the horrors of the mage-Templar conflict, so these renegade bands were making their lives a nightmare all over again.

And then the sky burst apart.

 

* * *

 

Vale was no storyteller. There was a dwarf, lately arrived in Haven, who could claim that particular title; he had come in the company of the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, and of Commander Cullen, who was now the man to whom all of the gathered forces would report. This dwarf was Varric Tethras, who wrote some of the novels that got passed around in the soldiers’ tents, and he immediately took up a place inside the Singing Maiden. For a time, over dinner, he held Vale and the rest of the assembled in thrall to one of his tales; as the crowd gradually peeled off for bed, he decided to do likewise, dropping some coins onto the table for Flissa the barmaid. “I’ll take my leave, then.”

“See you tomorrow, hon,” she told him as she passed.

The dwarf made his way to the door, and Vale started a fresh game of cards with a few of the other recruits. A few minutes later, however, the entire tavern went silent as Varric, standing near the door with his crossbow in his hands, stared at a soldier he had just pinned to the wall with a bolt.

“She’s not interested,” he said in a deadly calm voice, and for the first time Vale realized that the man must have been agitating Flissa. “But Bianca, here,” he continued, indicating his weapon, “is a sucker for drunk, dumb, and  _ ugly _ .”

The soldier growled, and pulled a knife, for which he was rewarded with another bolt - this time piercing his leather glove and tacking his arm to the wall. “Take a hint, human,” Varric growled.

Before anyone could do or say anything else, the entire tavern was rocked by an explosion, and a strange, sickly green light seemed to burst through every window. The dwarf, his irritation replaced by confusion, stumbled to the door and threw it open, and everyone could see the bizarre round green  _ hole in the sky _ .

Much to Vale’s puzzlement, he could hear Varric mutter to himself, “Oh, not again.”

 

* * *

 

By morning, Vale had gone from a regular recruit to an official Corporal.

It was, if he was honest about  the whole thing, a complete accident. He and some of the others had gone to investigate the situation near the Temple of Sacred Ashes, which had been completely decimated by the explosion which had torn apart the sky. They had hoped to find survivors; instead, they found corpses, soldered into position as if they were metal statues, their faces masks of horror. 

He had to turn away, lest he be sick. Turning back after taking a moment to steady himself, he scrabbled to pull his sword from its scabbard. “Evers! Behind you!”

The recruit called Evers barely had enough time to get out of the way before a demon - there was no other word for it - could strike him from behind. It was a tall, spindly thing, like a sapling abomination, and it took the efforts of every man in Vale’s outfit to bring it down.

“You saved my life, Vale,” Evers said, when it was over.

They walked in silence, climbing a path and crossing one of the ancient stone bridges which the Divine had ordered rebuilt along with the Temple itself. There they froze, for what might be described as an irregular green cloud hovered in the air some six or eight feet off the ground. As they watched, the oddity shifted, and lurched, and suddenly split open and spit two individuals onto the ground below itself. One was a human woman, disheveled and sickly pale; the other was a male elf, who came tumbling out after her as though he had forced her through the hole before him. Vale stared at the lingering gap in the air, and for a few seconds, he thought he could make out the silhouette of a woman with a tall cap, similar to what the Chantry priestesses wore. Then the hole closed in upon itself, leaving only these two unconscious figures sprawled on the stony path.

The soldiers gathered the two carefully and brought them back to Haven, presenting them to Cassandra Pentaghast and Lady Leliana, the Hands of the Divine. “We don’t know who they are,” Vale reported, explaining the details of how they had emerged from, as far as he could tell, the Fade itself.

“I recognize ‘em,” said Adan, the healer’s apprentice. Master Taigen had been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes when it blew, leaving only the former royal alchemist of Ferelden to act as the village healer. “I saw them when I was at the Temple, bringing Taigen some supplies he requested. They were attending the Conclave. I remember someone telling me the elf was the lady’s bodyguard, sort of stuck in my mind because it was unusual.”

Vale looked again at the almost lifeless figures. “Those green marks on their hands are a bit more than  _ unusual _ , I’d say,” he said. “Seems like they crackle every time that hole gets a little bigger. Wonder if they passed out from the pain.”

“Have them shackled,” said Lady Pentaghast, “and take them to the prison cells underneath the Chantry. Find that apostate elf - Solas - perhaps he can explain what all of this means.”

“I’ll head into the valley,” said Commander Cullen. “Maybe there’s some survivors yet. Vale, you and your men come with me. When we get back, I’m promoting you.”

 

* * *

 

 

To the best of his knowledge, the peculiar pair were still unconscious two days later when Vale - now Corporal Vale - departed Haven for his new assignment. Leading a small unit of recruits, he marched down into the Hinterlands and set up a camp. The Commander’s orders were clear; he was to gather information, and provide any possible aid to the refugees, but they were not to engage either of the renegade groups.

As they reached the outlying farmlands, Vale stared around in dismay. “I don’t think I expected things to be quite so… on fire.”

He began directing his troops as Commander Cullen had instructed, claiming a relatively unscorched hillside near the settled area known as the Hinterlands crossroads. (Why it was called that, Vale didn’t know. There was only one road, and it didn’t seem to him that it was particularly crossed by anything.) They had tents to erect, supplies to seek, refugees to interview. It soon became apparent, however, that they weren’t going to get very far from where they were currently stationed. Messengers sent west, to try and appeal to Horsemaster Dennet about supplying mounts to the newborn Inquisition, were unable to get past the tunnel which passed through a large hill - or small mountain, take your pick - because of the rogue Templars on the far side. Those attempting to travel north or east, in search of supplies or attempting to get to the actual village of Redcliffe, were stymied by either the mages or a group of unusually vicious bandits. Meanwhile, the state of the refugees weighed heavily on Vale’s mind, and he could find no means to alleviate their hunger, or their cold, or their illness.

The Breach (as they had named the hole in the sky) still lingered, but it had stopped spreading, and news trickled down from the Frostbacks about it. The strange escapees from the Fade had attempted to seal the Breach, without success, but had managed to reduce its power to such an extent that everybody was apparently ignoring the possibility that they were responsible for the Conclave exploding and killing Divine Justinia, along with a whole lot of other people. The Heralds of Andraste, they were called now, believed to have been saved from the carnage by the Lady herself. He didn’t know if it was true; to some extent, he didn’t care. He just wanted to put things back to rights, and if those marks on their hands were the means to that end, he was all for it.

A Chantry sister, Mother Giselle of Orlais, had somehow managed to bypass all the danger and chaos and set up camp in the crossroads. She was already present when Vale and his group arrived, so he honestly wasn’t sure if she’d been living in the area for some time or if she had slipped between the cracks in the fighting. Whatever the case, he was grateful that  _ somebody _ was trying to help him do his job, and he was only too happy to dispatch a recruit back to Haven with the news that she wanted to meet with the Heralds.

 

* * *

 

It was maybe another week before he saw them with his own eyes. 

Accompanied by Lady Pentaghast, and the dwarf storyteller, and a bald elf Vale supposed was the Solas fellow who had been mentioned, the Heralds of Andraste left Haven and came to the Hinterlands. Vale didn’t know it for a while, because they had to fight their way into the region, and they left a bloody trail of dead Templars and mages in their wake. From a distance, however, he could see them putting things to rights in the crossroads area, driving off the enemies and putting out the fires. Inquisition soldiers soon poured down the path behind them, establishing signposts and fanning out to guard the area.

Vale assumed they had their meeting with the Revered Mother, and nodded a greeting as the duo climbed the hill to speak with him afterward. In the light of a proper day, with a bit less panic in everyone’s minds, he could take a clearer look at the world’s hope of salvation.

The elf was tall and handsome, with the lithe figure characteristic of his race and eyes that were nearly as green as the mark on his right hand. The woman was a bit shorter, and her shape was difficult to discern in her heavy armor; she pulled off her helmet to reveal a slightly smashed arrangement of braided auburn hair.

“You’re with the Inquisition? Corporal Vale.” He gave them a nod. “Thanks for your help. The mages and Templars don’t seem to care who gets caught in their war.”

“Victoria Trevelyan,” said the Lady Herald, “and my friend, Mahanon Lavellan. What do you need from us, Corporal Vale?” 

“The refugees here are in dire need of help,” he replied grimly. “If the war doesn’t kill them, cold or starvation will.” The other three drew near to listen as he explained just what was needed, and with whom they needed to speak about how to correct the issues. The refugees were in dire need of food, warm blankets, and the services of a proper healer - and that was on top of fearing mages, Templars, and bandits.

“What about the horsemaster?” the Lord Herald wanted to know. “Has there been any word from him?”

“He lives on a farm to the west. Tough old fellow. Best we can tell, he’s holed up until the mages and Templars are done killing each other. Can’t say I blame him.”

“We’ll do what we can for these people, Vale, don’t worry,” said the Lady Herald.

 

* * *

 

Vale was almost embarrassed by how surprised he was at their success.

The Heralds were on the run in the Redcliffe area for close to a fortnight. He occasionally caught glimpses of them as they passed through the crossroads area, while he was overseeing recruit training, and they waved at him when they saw him looking. 

Sister Nightingale’s ever-growing army of runners occasionally carried messages to and from Haven, and often stopped at his camp for water or to bring him news from the leaders. From what he learned from them, the Heralds and their group had first tackled the issue of hunger for the refugees; a hunter who had a cabin in the crossroads had suggested tracking some of the wild rams who roamed the hillsides, and the dwarf had proven that his crossbow had more uses than pinning ruffians to walls. From there, they’d gone in search of supplies stashed by the rebel mages throughout the countryside, returning to Vale’s man Whittle with a map marking the spots where such things could be found. There was simply too much for them all to carry, and Vale had dispatched Whittle and a few of the other recruits to collect and distribute the goods. There were also a few Fade rifts dotting the Hinterlands, and only the Heralds had the means to seal these and protect the people from demon attacks.

By the time they were once again before him, the exhaustion in all of their faces was clear. But the renegade mages and Templars had been dispatched, the bandits cleared off, and an elven healer accompanied the group from Redcliffe Village and immediately began tending the worst of the injuries.

“You’ve done amazing work out here,” he told them with sincere admiration. “Thanks to you, these refugees are safe, with warm clothes and food in their bellies.” He paused. “You know, the Inquisition might be able to make use of them, if you’d a mind.”

The Heralds exchanged a glance. “What are the options?”

“We could ask the best and brightest to join the Inquisition,” he explained. “Many of these folk have skills that could aid our cause. Or it’d be just as easy to look on the whole thing as an act of charity.”

“All right, Vale,” said the Lord Herald after a moment. “See if any of them want to volunteer.”

“I’m sure we’ll get some good recruits out of it.” Vale was surprised to hear the enthusiasm in his own voice. “I’ll go now and settle things with the refugees - and thank you, again.”

After the Conclave blew, Vale hadn’t been sure he’d ever remember how to feel anything remotely close to  _ hope _ , but it was impossible to deny the sensation blossoming in his chest. Not all of the refugees would join, of course, but there were some he was sure would be interested, and he spent most of the rest of the day seeking them out where they sheltered. There was a carpenter who would help improve the structures in Haven; a former merchant had useful contacts that could bring supplies, once he was provided with the means to reach out to them; an orphaned youth was eager to be apprenticed to the blacksmith; a pregnant widow with a good head for sums went to Haven to work with the quartermaster. Some agreed to join Commander Cullen’s army, while others showed an interest in Sister Nightingale’s spy network. 

_ We’ve lost a lot, _ Vale thought to himself that night, gazing through the flap of his tent at the strange sky.  _ But hope survives. _


	3. Master of Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horsemaster Dennet comes to serve the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the other agents in this side volume, Master Dennet's backstory is actually a thing - it can be found in The World of Thedas, vol. 2. So everything included here about his teaching Alistair to ride, what killed the previous horsemaster, and when he retired is all taken from that. 
> 
> Special thanks to Patrick Weekes and Mark Darrah for talking to me about this on Twitter. Yes, really.
> 
> Also! For those of you who have started this series by reading this volume, welcome to Twice Upon an Age! I hope you'll also read the other stories in this series - start with "All This Sh*t is Twice as Weird" (still in progress), and dive off at some point to read the two other side volumes "Across the Waking Sea" and "The Skyhold Runner's Guide to Survival." It'll make it more comprehensible why there are two Inquisitors and two Heroes of Ferelden when you read the other stuff. Enjoy!

* * *

 

**Master of Horses**

* * *

 

 

 

“There’s something not right about those wolves,” Elaina said.

Dennet looked up from where he was gazing into his bowl of soup. His mind had been wandering, he realized; he’d been absently remembering giving lessons in horsemanship to a soft little boy who often slept in the stables at Redcliffe Castle, and pondering how that little boy was now the King of Ferelden. “What did you say, dear?”

“The wolves,” she repeated. “Bron says they don’t act normally. Not afraid of blades or even torches - something’s off.”

“Hm.” He nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Whole world seems off just now.”

It was a condition he knew well. Years ago, when Dennet had been a much younger man, things had made sense. He had been apprenticed to the horsemaster who served the Arl of Redcliffe, and worked under him for many years, and the world had been quite comprehensible until he took sick and died. No one - not the healers, not the mages, not even a few Dalish elves who had been consulted - could figure out what had killed both him and the horse he was tending. It had been Dennet himself who realized the truth, that it was Blight sickness, and they narrowly managed to keep it from spreading to either the rest of the herd or the rest of the castle residents. 

This had been, of course, a portent of things to come. The Blight had begun to stir in Ferelden, and nothing could be done to stop it except by the Grey Wardens, including that soft little boy he had once taught to ride. Alistair was a grown man now, of course, and he and the pair who earned their place in history as the Heroes of Ferelden put things to rights... but not before Arl Eamon’s son wreaked havoc on Redcliffe in the form of an undead army and the workings of a demon. The Wardens had to fix that too. Then, as they started putting the village back together, darkspawn attacked it on their way to Denerim.

Dennet had remained at his post, once the Blight was over, just long enough to help rebuild. He was there for the castle relocation, for the Chantry repairs, for the construction of a magnificent griffon statue to honor the saviors of the village. Then he handed his position to his most promising stablehand, packed up his wife and daughter, and bade farewell to Redcliffe. They had settled here, a few miles from the village proper, and Dennet had just started to relax into his retirement when the news came about the mage-Templar war.

_ Here we go again _ , he remembered thinking.

 

* * *

 

 

With the renegade mages and Templars more or less squatting in the Hinterlands, Dennet and Elaina had sent almost all of the farmhands away for their own safety. Most had followed their suggestion that they go and stay with Elaina’s family; the elf lad Hyndel had gone to his parents, who lived at the crossroads, at least as far as Dennet knew. They’d wanted to send Seanna, too, but their daughter was about as mule-headed as any other member of Dennet’s clan and refused to leave them. So the three of them and the lone remaining laborer, Bron, had dug in their heels to wait out the mess. 

Most of their neighbors had fled, not that he blamed them; it had been a worse winter than usual, with wet heavy snow blowing down from the Frostbacks, and the old wooden farmhouses had taken serious damage. Between the roofs deteriorating rapidly and the onset of banditry in the surrounding foothills, it had been deemed the better part of wisdom to get out while they could. He was pretty sure the only reason Cobb, across the road, had stayed behind was because it was too difficult to get a herd of druffalo to go anywhere they didn’t feel like going, and he wasn’t going to leave his animals to the mercy of wildlife and thugs. Dennet could respect that, and sent Bron over as often as he could be spared to help the man try to put his roof back together.

Thanks to all the goings-on in the Redcliffe area, news was in short supply. So was help; Dennet couldn’t very well get a message to anyone to help with the wolves, what with heavily armed men on the southern path and Templars to the east, and the only bridge that crossed the river had been so badly damaged in the fighting, no wagon could cross it.

The weird greenish blobs floating in midair didn’t make him any more comfortable either. They seemed content to just sort of hover, one by his old tree and one over the river. Seanna went to the river for fresh water for the horses every morning, and she reported that the one there often shifted and squirmed like it was trying to give birth to some diabolical baby, but nothing ever managed to emerge.  “Seems like it showed up after the big one appeared in the sky,” she remarked. 

“Whole world’s gone mad,” Dennet replied with a shrug. He said it often. He believed it, too. But somehow he felt as though his faith hadn’t been entirely shaken just yet, and he trusted that the Maker, or Andraste - one of them - would send help.

It took a while, but he was patient.

 

* * *

 

 

A messenger appeared at the farm one day. Oddly garbed, Dennet thought; the flaming eyeball on the woman’s leather armor was a bit disquieting. She seemed friendly enough, though, and by all appearances was just happy to have found they were alive. “I represent the Inquistion, Master Dennet,” she said.

“The what now?”

“The Inquisition, ser. We’re trying to set things right, fix the Breach in the sky and stop the mages and Templars from killing everybody.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in some time,” he replied. “What brings you to Redcliffe Farms?”

“My job is just to let you know that help’s coming, if you need it. The Heralds of Andraste have bested the Templars who had set up camp along the river,” she said. “They won’t be giving you trouble any longer, or keeping you from sending for supplies or the like.”

“And who are the Heralds of Andraste?”

“The Maker’s chosen, ser! They survived the explosion that destroyed our beloved Most Holy’s Conclave, and they’ve been sent by the Maker to aid His suffering world.” There was something shining in the messenger’s eyes, and Dennet couldn’t quite decide if it was fervent devotion or just a touch of madness. The situation in Thedas being what it was, they might be the same thing, he noted.

“Well - Inquisition, was it?”

“Yes, ser!”

“You say these Heralds are coming here?”

“Yes, ser. The Inquisition needs horses, you see,” she explained, “and everybody who’s anybody knows that the finest horses come from Master Dennet’s stables.”

“Oh, so the Heralds are coming to talk to me about my stock. Fair enough. I’ll be waiting - I’ve got some jobs they can do when they get here.” He paused. “Can they do anything about the fuzzy green things in the air?”

“Those are Fade rifts, ser.” She nodded. “They’ll take care of them.”

“I’m not sure what that means exactly, but if they can get rid of them, that’s good enough for me.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a full month later when Dennet found himself settled at Haven.

He was a little bemused by how quickly things had happened. The Heralds had shown up, just as the messenger promised. They shooed away the green bits, then talked to him and Bron and Elaina to find out what needed doing in the farms. Between wolves and bandits, he wasn’t about to just hand over a bunch of horses and let them be killed or stolen, but in the short term he’d been willing enough to give them  _ one _ horse. They had a few plow-pullers, and the Lady Herald had some kind of magnificent armored creature toting her around the Hinterlands; they could manage.

He hadn’t asked them for much; indeed, they themselves had called his terms more than reasonable. Bron had given him ideas about setting up watchtowers in the farm region, to keep an eye out for bandit patrols, and Elaina needed the wolves to return to normal. The watchtowers were constructed within a week, and staffed by Inquisition soldiers, and the Heralds themselves dealt with the demon that had seized control of the wolves. “Demons always do muck everything up,” Seanna had said, teasingly, when they discussed the matter over dinner.

“Well, the Inquisition held up their end of the bargain, so I’ll hold true to mine,” Dennet replied.

“And you’re going to go to Haven, I expect,” said Elaina.

Dennet glanced at her, startled. He  _ had _ agreed to go; he just hadn’t said as much yet. “They did ask - and I won’t have it said that Redcliffe gave less than its best,” he replied.

“I figured as much.” Her tone was always so matter-of-fact; it amused him. “Well, with the mages and the Templars handled and the wolves acting like wolves again, we should be safe enough until the other hands get back. I’ll start getting your warmest clothing together in the morning, you’re going to need it up there.”

She was, as usual, correct in her assessment, and Dennet was profoundly grateful that the stable was attached to the back of the blacksmith’s foundry. It allowed him, and the animals, to remain near enough to the forges that the hot coals staved off the worst of the chill. The Inquisition had been equipped with twelve of the finest Fereldan forders he’d ever raised, and he draped them in blankets and allowed them to canter around the pen with the rest of the motley herd.

“Haven is groaning under the weight,” he remarked to the Lord Herald. “It wasn’t built for this. But we’ll make it serve.” 

He was talking about the horses, and the other mounts, but he also meant the people. More and more flocked to the Inquisition banner by the day, it seemed. He wrote as much to Elaina.  _ This place makes Redcliffe Village look like Denerim by comparison - it’s tiny and dirty and it becomes more cramped with every passing hour. Refugees are pouring in through the ancient gates, wanting to be a part of all of this. I don’t know if I can blame them. Uncertain times like these, we all need to believe in something. For my part, I guess I believe in it as much as anyone else; our horses are serving something greater than I ever expected. _

 

* * *

 

 

Horses he was prepared to handle, and indeed there seemed to be no end of them; his own herd aside, the Inquisition was receiving gifts of mounts from all sorts of people and factions, and there were horses in his stable from Orlais and Nevarra and even Rivain. Harts were a bit more exotic, and yet docile and biddable. Proud creatures, but rightfully so. Solas, the elven mage who had attached himself to the Inquisition, gave him some helpful hints on their proper care and maintenance.

Dracolisks… Dennet hadn’t quite been prepared for the first dracolisk. He had  _ heard _ of such things, in much the same way that one could say they’d heard of Dane and the werewolves - a legend, possibly rooted in fact, which no one could properly confirm or deny because no one knew for sure. But there it was, plain as day, a giant wingless lizard capable of carrying a rider over the mountains and cliffsides. It was peculiar to the touch, like petting a very old piece of leather that desperately needed a good oiling, and the stablehands took it in turns to ‘polish’ the creature daily. This made the skin shiny, and much more supple, but petting it wasn’t any too much more pleasant. The fact that it didn’t seem to want to be petted made the decision easier; the thing had a temper the likes of which Dennet had never seen. No one was to go near it without two stablehands holding it by the harness so it couldn’t bite. 

Once there were a couple more of its own kind in the stable for companionship, the first dracolisk settled down and became less irritable. Dennet thought he had a pretty good handle on the matter right up until the ground started shaking. 

“Ser, this is the Greater Mountain Nuggalope, which the Heralds have procured for the exclusive use of the Iron Bull,” said the scout who was leading the thing. It was a massive horned beast, barely showing any resemblance to the comparatively tiny nugs which were its cousins, and it blinked at him in a manner he could only describe as smug. They stared each other down for a few minutes.

“Ser Bull has named it the Deth Nug. I didn’t ask why... Master Dennet?” asked the scout. “Are you all right, ser?”

“...it has  _ hands _ .”

 

* * *

 

 

Weeks later, he wrote to Elaina again.

_ I’m all right. The blacksmith’s apprentices helped the boys and me to get the horses and whatnot out, and the Inquisition finally made it to a safe place. Skyhold, they call it. We’ve got castle walls around us and I think it makes a lot of people feel better. We didn’t all escape the avalanche - I wish I could say that we had, but we lost a fair few of the village residents.  _

_ The whole thing’s almost as much of a mess as it was the last time I saw you, except that the hole in the sky’s been sewn shut. That much is an improvement. I’ll send this with one of the Inquisition’s messenger ravens, and hopefully it will reach you not too long after the news of Haven’s destruction does. I say it again - I’m all right. Love to you and Seanna. _

Skyhold, he reflected as the bird flew away, was much better suited to the Inquisition’s task than Haven had ever been. He wasn’t completely sure what that task  _ was _ , now, since the Breach had been sealed; apparently it had something to do with the individual responsible for causing it in the first place. The report given by the Lady Herald, who had faced him alone, was more than a little confusing - especially when he heard it secondhand. But Dennet figured he knew everything he needed to know, which was that there would be more horses required and he would need to tend them.

He was fine with that. He was, after all, a horsemaster.

But to his dying day, Dennet was pretty sure he would never understand why the Deth Nug had hands.


	4. Mercy's Crest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blades of Hessarian chafe under a tyrannical leader until the Inquisitors set them free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ivor of the Blades" is the guy who signs all of the messages sent to the war table by the Blades of Hessarian, so he seemed the natural choice for the POV character in this chapter. The reason he's an identical twin is because when you recruit the Blades, the one who speaks to you (whom I've always assumed was the same guy) is standing next to another Blade who looks exactly like him. Out of those facts, this chapter took on a life of its own.
> 
> Varric sends his regards to all of our regular readers. The next chapter of the main story will probably be up within the coming week.

* * *

**Mercy's Crest**

* * *

 

 

 

The Blades were often misunderstood. Ivor had known that for years. Following the ravages of the Blight on Ferelden, which had robbed them of their parents and turned their farmland into a barren waste, he and his twin brother Ivan were more or less set adrift. They were just seventeen. It was luck, or maybe fate, which had let them stumble across the path of a man called Edric of Lydes. He bustled them under his wing, brought them to the Storm Coast, gave them a home and a purpose they had lacked.

They were raised Andrastian, of course, like most humans in Thedas, but the Blades of Hessarian were so much more than merely Andrastian. They were the spiritual descendants of an escaped Tevinter slave who had once served the mighty Archon Hessarian himself. The slave - Ivor never could remember his name - had stolen the blessed Sword of Mercy, the weapon with which Hessarian had released Andraste from her suffering; or he had been given the blade by Andraste as a boon. Stories varied. Whichever was the case, the slave had taken his prize and fled Tevinter for the southlands. There, he had gathered strong men and women about him, and they forged themselves into the Blades of Hessarian - an order of holy warriors who served Andraste above all.

A lot of people thought the Blades were a thing of the past, but this was not so. When they met him, Edric was the holder of the Sword of Mercy.  _ Oh _ , he told the boys with a chuckle,  _ this an’t the real one no more, lads. Long gone, that one is. This is just a copy that’s made it through the ages. _ Someday, he said, someone else would have the sword. It might easily be one of them, if they were willing to bear the burden.

To be a Blade of Hessarian meant, at least in part, to give up one’s old life. A Blade was no longer a person, but a living weapon. Like a weapon, he or she was a tool, meant to be wielded by one who had proven themselves.

Unfortunately, also like a weapon, the Blades had no say in just who was worthy of wielding them.

 

* * *

 

 

He called himself Holger, the Hammer of Waking Sea, and he killed Edric.

This was not an entirely unfamiliar concept. On rare occasions in the past, the leader of the Blades had been killed by a rival who then claimed the Sword of Mercy. The rest of the group then transferred their allegiance to that individual, as he - it was rarely  _ she _ , when it came to a violent coup - had proven worthy of wielding them.

However, this was an unusual scenario. Holger was not a Blade of Hessarian, at least not as far as Ivor knew. He was much larger than any of the Blades the boy had ever met, and he strolled into the compound as though he owned it. Every Blade was immediately on the alert.

Edric alone was calm, and raised a hand. “Be at ease,” he called, and they hesitated. “I know this man. It’s all right.” He stepped forward to greet the newcomer. “Have you come to join us at last, Holger? I’ve written you so often, my old friend, I had hoped your heart would finally be turned to the light of Andraste.”

“Have I come to join you?” Holger repeated. “You could say that.” And in a movement so swift and unexpected that Ivor almost believed he was having a nightmare, the stranger pulled a dagger from his belt and felled Edric where he stood. Then he bent, and took the Sword of Mercy from the dead man’s body, and held it aloft for them all to see.

“I wield the sword,” he said in a loud voice. “I lead the Blades of Hessarian.”

They had, it seemed, no choice but to be his weapons.

 

* * *

 

 

Ivor wanted to run away.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since Holger took command of the Blades of Hessarian. He knew that autumn had passed into winter, and the Storm Coast was frigid and damp in the pale sunlight, and that signs of spring were beginning to appear. He knew that they were struggling to find food, and that few were the travelers who braved the elements of the region.

Holger was no loyal Andrastian. He had turned the Blades to his own purposes, ordering them to raid merchant caravans and rob travelers. He scoffed at the written tenets of the order, and casually gutted anyone who dared to question his orders. Some of the older Blades had tried to stand up to him, had tried to wrest control of the Blades back from his clenching grip. Ivor was ordered to burn their bodies afterward. The rest of the group had taken the lessons to heart, keeping their misgivings to themselves.

“We have to get out of here,” he told Ivan one night, under cover of darkness, in a voice so faint he almost couldn’t hear himself speak. The prospect of being overheard was terrifying.

“And where would we go?” his brother asked, baffled. “I hate it here too, but we have nowhere to go. Even if we did, Holger would probably send the other Blades after us. Maybe we’d be all right if we got out of Ferelden, but there are no ships coming to this coastline anytime soon.”

Ivan was right, of course, as much as it troubled Ivor to admit it. He watched in despair as a bright green spring slowly stole over the ground, and spindleweed appeared again on the banks of the Long River. He followed the water to the distant caves where giant spiders collected under the gaze of a dwarven statue, and he killed them and collected their ichor for the alchemist to brew poisons. He and Ivan stalked a bear across the hills until she led them to her den, but they turned away at the mouth of the cave when they realized she had cubs, and they lied to Holger about having ever seen her. He stared in horror as darkspawn began to emerge in small groups from a rupture in the mountainside, and for several days his dreams were filled with memories he had buried of his mother’s screams as their farmhouse burned.

He had just about made up his mind to go - to flee into the Fereldan countryside, alone if he couldn’t persuade Ivan to go with him - when the sky was rent asunder. Word reached them about the Conclave, and the Breach, and the newborn Inquisition that was desperate to save the world. And Ivor realized, with a sinking heart, that he was trapped anew. While he could possibly navigate his way past bears and spiders and maybe even evade Holger’s trackers if he were clever enough, he was no match for the demons that were said to be escaping through the smaller cracks in the Veil.

 

* * *

 

 

“The Inquisition has sent forward scouts,” Holger informed them with a grunt. “I’ve sent some of our people to handle it.”

“Meaning… what, exactly?” asked one of the Blades, immediately backing up when Holger cast a glare in her direction.

“Meaning I don’t want those useless bastards interfering with my operation,” he replied. “Anyone captures and kills an Inquisition rat, dump the body in the shack across the valley and report to me. Enough of them die, they’ll stop sniffing around these parts.”

Ivor thought that Holger was likely to be correct on this score until a few weeks later, when he heard voices outside of the compound. The gates swung open, and a small party entered. He could see a hulking horned creature - one of those Qunari of whom he’d heard a little, he thought. There was a dwarf, too, and a tall woman with a lean, elegant figure. Leading the little group was a dark-haired elf, who studied them all with cold green eyes, and a slightly smaller human woman whose helmet didn’t entirely obscure her reddish hair. Most remarkably, however, the woman wore the Mercy’s Crest on a length of chain around her neck.

Ivor had seen the Mercy’s Crest only rarely. It was a special amulet of serpentstone, and it was a hallmark to every Blade of Hessarian that the bearer had come in peace to parley. They, and their companions, were not to be attacked so long as one of them wore it. He and Ivan, and a few of the others, backed away from the quintet as they crossed the grounds to where Holger stood, watching them with an unimpressed expression.

“So,” he said coolly as they approached, “you would challenge the Blades of Hessarian?” He was considerably larger than most of those who approached him; the smaller of the two women had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze.

“You killed soldiers of the Inquisition,” she said. “We cannot let this stand.”

So these were representatives of the Inquisition. Ivor watched, dimly fascinated, as Holger’s expression darkened. He stared at her almost in disgust, like he could hardly believe she had dared to so much as speak to him.

“You want justice? Claim it!” He let out a primal roar. 

Not a single Blade of Hessarian moved to aid him, though it was painful to watch as a few of the mabari were cut down when they tried to defend their master. But it was all over within a few minutes, and the wet stones of the compound were splattered with Holger’s blood. “It’s done,” said the elf, cleaning the edge of one of his dual blades. “As long as everyone here respects the outcome.”

“These,” said the tall woman, gesturing to the elf and the one who bore the Mercy’s Crest, “are the Heralds of Andraste. They have been sent by the Maker to heal the Breach in the sky.”

That was more than enough for Ivor. Seeing that no one else appeared willing to address them, he stepped forward. “Your Worships,” he said, “the Blades of Hessarian are at your service. If you want eyes on the Coast, here we are.”

“I’d not heard of the Blades of Hessarian until all this happened,” said the Lady Herald. 

“Our work is often misunderstood.” On the contrary; in recent times it had been understood entirely too well, he thought grimly, given what they had been forced to do. “But we serve Andraste, and whoever proves worthy of wielding us.”

“You and your Blades are loyal to the Inquisition?” asked the Lord Herald.

“We’re loyal to  _ you _ , Your Worships,” he corrected them. “I suppose that’s the same thing.”

“So there’s no ill will over what just happened to your former boss?” This came from the dwarf, who was checking a strange-looking crossbow for damage.

Ivor shook his head. “The man was a bastard,” he said, overjoyed to be able to speak his mind without fear for the first time in ages. “You’re not the first to challenge him - you’re just the first to  _ win _ . And we’re happy with that. I think we would all rather swear our lives to the Heralds of Andraste.” He glanced around at his fellows, who were nodding their agreement.

 

* * *

 

The Heralds declined to keep the Sword of Mercy. They could hold it symbolically, the Lady Herald said, but it should remain with the Blades of Hessarian who knew its true value. It was mounted above the spot where Holger used to stand, the spot where he died, and Ivor took an almost perverse satisfaction in lighting the bastard’s funeral pyre. The ashes of leaders past had always been collected and stored in the great urns which flanked the Sword; but Holger had denied this honor to Edric, and now Ivor denied it to Holger.

Once the flames had died down, they poured water on the embers to make them cold. Ivor took a spade and gathered the ashes into a bucket, and with a grin such as he had not worn in a very long time, he made his way down to the coastline and dumped them into the Waking Sea.

Holger’s reign of terror was over. He would be forgotten in time. The Blades were free.

_ Long life and glory to the Heralds of Andraste. _


End file.
